The Rogue Prince
by Lord Onisyr
Summary: Stories and journal entries of Cormanthor's most feared villain: Drizzt Do'Urden.
1. Entry One: Rise of the Prince

**The Rogue Prince**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

Author's Note: This piece was written on the fly, yet it is the start of an idea I've been playing around with for a while. For some reason I had the inspiration to finally start this. Like "The Cruelest Fate," this is more of an experimental idea dump. Constructive criticism always welcome.

Rated M for graphic violence, strong sexual themes, and strong language.

**Entry One: The Rending of Purity  
**

16 day of Elient, 1373 DR, The Year of Rogue Dragons

The dream has always started the same.

I am in the forest, walking aimlessly through the mist in search of a sign I know will come. I am thirsty, my water skin dry and my throat the consistency of sand while my body is wracked with chill.

I run through the forest, my bare feet torn from the brambles and stones. I can feel my blood oozing out and painting my path in hot red. Yet I run still.

The mist is thick, blurring my vision, yet still I know I am looking for my sign.

And my sign comes to me, suddenly appearing right in the middle of the woods.

A silver light cuts through the darkness, yet my eyes are not bothered. I stop in my tracks and focus. The silver glow that takes over the landscape fades into a form.

I then look to see a grand, graceful unicorn standing in my path. Her muscles are taut and honed, her coat of pure silver while her long mane reflects stars from a thousand galaxies. Her glowing, emerald eyes bore through my very soul as she merely stands and stares at me.

I will stand still in complete awe, feeling a very small creature in front of this powerful, beautiful creature. She slowly walks over to me, her green eyes pleading. I just stand still, waiting for her to gore me or nuzzle me.

I stand, the feeling of awe and fear starting to dwindle. I manage to move my legs a bit, and then walk forward to her. At last this grand creature is within arm's reach. I stop again, looking into her pure eyes. A small tear comes down her cheek, compelling me to slowly reach my hand forward and pet her mane. She leans her head into the touch and cranes her neck forward.

I laugh, getting a better feel of the softness of her mane while savoring her pure beauty…and feeling it scraping against my very being.

Her pure white mane is dyed with red now as my scimitar connects with her neck. She bucks, whinnies, and stops making any noise as I slice through her thick throat. More slices appear along her body, cutting apart every sinew of muscles. I want to see ever ounce of that pure, silver flesh stained, dyed, and soaked in her own blood.

I hack into her and tear apart her torso; glowing entrails flying out and being cut apart as fast as I can strike. I am giving her no moment to struggle. Every movement is a mockery to my very being.

I hack wildly, feeling her pure blood splash on my flesh and burn it, though I savor the burn. I savor the pain for the sake of spilling pure blood and rending silver flesh. I want to see every ounce of it a mere pile of meat bleeding out on the ground and dying the grass red. There is now red, thick mud under my feet as her graceful legs go out from under her in a heap and the rest of her body is now fit for dog scraps.

All I see in this mass of blood and flesh is her head, one tear still streaming down her cheek, and her still beating heart next to it.

I stand, looking over her body and still feeling those green eyes mocking me even more. I am about to stab them out when calm comes over me.

I slowly reach down into the mess, my flesh blistering with her pure blood, and lift up her heart. It still pounds in my hand, pleading to me more than her eyes ever could. I look down at it, slowly sink my fingernails into the tissue, and begin to squeeze.

My hand is raw, the whinnying of the head is shrill and I swear I heard my name being screamed by a mournful woman.

Then I stop caring. Then I ignore the pain, turn it around, and savor the feeling of spilt blood, though there is even one more feeling that invigorates my being and makes my heart leap with joy.

It is the sight of purity and goodness destroyed. This is my power. This is what cleanses my soul.

The heart crumbles in my hand, the blood drying and turning to gray dust against my black skin. I slowly look back at the head and take a leap to cave it in. The blood now feels cooling against my skin, the wet feel now soothes my aches, fills my throat with blood, which I swallow greedily.

I stand in the woods; the red stains my standard, the bloody ground my realm, and the corpse of an innocent my herald while a chorus of shadowy voices call in fanfare:

All hail the Rogue Prince.

I can only guess the meaning of this dream given my change of situation in the past three months, though it haunts me still for whatever reason.

It is not guilt; that I know for a fact. I have stopped feeling any guilt for my actions. I am responsible for my own destiny and am free to my own actions good or ill.

Are these dreams a final indication of my insanity; the part of my brain that finally broke with the rest of my morals? I am not ruling out that possibility. Regardless, these visions trouble me.

There is however that sense of unfinished business, that sense that these dreams are the final point in the right direction. The logical answer to that would be Cormanthor, the land I left in celebration three months ago. I have yet to return, perhaps out of uncertainty, perhaps distrust, perhaps my unwillingness to finally admit the inevitable.

There is a friend waiting for me in those weeds, a troupe of allies who have hailed me a leader. There was one friend, a priest, who gave me a teleportation wand with the ability to return me to that land whenever I chose. That wand still sits on my bureau, though I will look at it at least once a day.

I know there there is a group of friends and allies who wait for me, those who would be honored and blessed in my presence, though I say that more in morbid jest than any egotism.

Though there is that one friend I left in the forest, though I know he still watched over me…though I know he is still a part of me.

He is Lord Vhaeraun, the specter in the woods, the god figure who inflicted scars on me, though opened my thoughts to endless possibilities. A part of me has wanted to ignore this moment, pretend it never happened. Then there is that louder side that is a little curious about seeing him again.

I think my dreams have solved that dilemma for me.

I know he is just waiting for me to announce myself at last, and I feel obligated to oblige.

-Drizzt Do'Urden


	2. Entry Two: Definition

**The Rogue Prince**

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

Author's Note: This is another piece of randomness that came at me at 2 a.m. and had to be written. It has no action so it may be boring. Enjoy!

**Entry Two**

28 of Ches, 1374 DR, The Year of Lightening Storms

I have found that we can define who we are by how we define our actions, or more appropriately, how we define our ill actions.

A soldier who finds himself in a berserker rage and comes to his senses to see a hundred orc corpses dripping at his feet may have a different reaction depending on who he is.

There is the one who will be "stricken with guilt." The there is one who will be "shamed." Another will be "saddened." Then there is the one who is "not proud of what he did" which leads to the one who is "indifferent."

Then there is the one who is "proud" of his actions, the one who holds no remorse and doesn't pretend to feel remorse.

At one point in history I would have reacted with a sword to those who said this, though I now know I would be no better than he. It is the one who describes himself as "proud" for doing his ill deed that I have come to see as the more honest man, the one with nothing to hide both to himself and the rest of the world.

I have come to see pure goodness as a myth; no one is pure, no one is all righteous, everyone is a sinner in some respect and has a tainted soul to some degree. Maybe the pure, white veil covers who they really are; the true nature of their souls.

I have more admiration for those who freely admit their ill deeds, no matter their background, cause, or reasoning. I appreciate honesty, if I might not always agree with it. Admit to gutting the goblin who tried to eat your chickens, I have no issue with that. Tell me about the paramour who played you for a whore and how you castrated him, you have my sympathies. Tell me of the poor girl you found alone in the back alley and just had to have your way with her, I will listen… before beheading you, but that's another story.

That does bring up the true bulk of this matter though, what do I view of my own ill actions, or how do I define ill actions? That is indeed the stuff of debate is it not?

I would like to consider myself more practical now, though I will admit major pockets of idealism that still linger with me to this day; though this may not be idealism but a few things that reflect who I truly am.

I am being honest with myself in the fact I cannot define all my actions and motivations. In the old days I would have said all my actions were done for the general good in some way. Now, I say my actions may be good or ill depending on the situation.

There is a freedom in this; I do not feel motivated by any overall cause to anyone but myself and my own interests.

In my life I will consider the words of three forces who I find to be of great wisdom: myself, Vhaeraun, and my two brothers in arms and all in that order. I listen carefully to my god since I respect a higher power who can kick my ass if I become too cocksure, while the latter are my greatest mentors who I am not shy about ignoring when I need to.

I have learned that I need to hold myself in the highest regard, though if only for survival and not ego. I need to mind myself all the time and keep in touch with my moods. To deny they exist is very dangerous for me given what I will admit to be my temper. What I also must do is figure myself out and deny nothing I find.

I have found violence is my life, for good or ill. I was raised to be a warrior and it has found its way into my very soul. Zaknafein, bless his tortured, miserable soul, was a man of honor who was capable of the greatest self-sacrifice. He was also an animal with two swords who had a gleam in his eye every time he advanced for blood. I am the same, whether due to my race, upbringing, or general temperament.

I say now that I am "proud" of my passion in this regard. I used to be "stricken with guilt" after killing Masoj Hun'net, "shamed" after hacking those corbies in my travels with Belwar, "saddened" over killing my sister Vierna, "not proud" of slaughtering those orcs on my own whim, and "indifferent" to every other orc and monster I've slaughtered since. Now, I am generally "proud."

I was "proud" of cracking Kemp of Targos' back, I was "proud" of spilling the bodies of those monks, and I have been "proud" of every body that has been laid to waste by my hands. I have had no reason not to be proud.

As for my more carnal passions, I have stopped denying those altogether. At one point it disgusted me to even think of being taken by anyone. Now I've taken female, male, drow, human, elf, name a time and place. I would like to consider it more as liberation, though the actual reasons touch on some painful thoughts that I am not ready to visit as of now.

Anything physical or social of whatever because of whatever nature by which I still cannot abide is tyranny and disrespect when not productive.

It would be easy to spout off Vhaeraun's tenant of "Fight the tyranny of the Spider Queen in all ways and…" you get the rest. That is a part of it; I would have stayed in Menzoberranzan if I enjoyed being controlled though I'm here now going against it. I will admit I have found some new theories for why the thought of dominance for dominance sake only sickens me; I am a creature of freedom and maybe a hindrance on that freedom is a threat.

It is though for deeper reasons that I find rape and harm to children abominable. I could make a million reasons for how I feel, though I will admit it is merely because of an unspoken feeling possibly resulting from my goodly days that will never leave. Or maybe they came from Zak's early lessons and stories of the terrors of Menzoberranzan or my own experiences.

It is this unspoken feeling that also dominates my thoughts for my friends as I still call them. Artemis Entreri and Jarlaxle Baenre have saved my life, kept me from destroying myself, and have been the most available companions I have ever had. Mazn'reysla Sshemlet has been a spiritual counselor and a ready listener; I find no judgment in his eyes and I have no immediate reason to challenge his motives. We have shared things with each other that I have considered sacred in their own way even if it was simply physical. My brothers and sisters in the Auzcovyn are my cheering section, my guards, my wards, my fellows.

I have come not to define emotion as weakness unlike many of my colleagues. Losing control of one's emotions is to invite weakness and denying emotion only invites a loss of control. A bard once called emotion the ultimate whetstone and I couldn't agree more.

I understand my views may be hypocritical, perhaps naïve, maybe just plain awful. I am a work in progress, I always will be. When I am 1,000 I will still never figure out who I am. Will I continue my "wickedness" for the rest of my life? I don't know. I don't see myself returning to the life of chaste goodness, though I have come to believe that anything is possible. People die, people turn on each other, people change, people grow.

All I can definitely say is that Drizzt Do'Urden is Drizzt Do'Urden: nothing more, nothing less. I wouldn't want it any other way.

-Drizzt Do'Urden

Author's Note: The bard reference is a paraphrase from Shakespeare's Macbeth "Be this the whetstone of your sword. Give sorrow words."


	3. A Toast to the Departed

**The Rogue Prince **

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters are the property of R.A. Salvatore/Wizards of the Coast ©. I don't own them; I'm just examining all their possibilities.

Author's Note: This was originally written as a contest entry for Deviant Art, though I have been wanting to include more vignettes among the journal entries, so this is being included.

A Toast to the Departed

The 1st of Uktar, 1373 DR The Year of Rogue Dragons

"Are my eyes deceiving me or do you actually look amused," Drizzt said to his companion with a curious smirk, looking around at the festivities.

Artemis Entreri merely gave a polite smile with a cruel gleam in his black eyes.

"In Calimport, the princes and pashas will hold a grander celebration than this," he replied in a bored tone. "A whole parade of their most…colorful flying carpets, black roses falling from the sky, all the manner of gaudiness they all wallow in."

Drizzt snickered, looking down the main promenade of Baldur's Gate while watching the parade of costumed dancers running around in their own glee. Multi-colored ribbons streamed between buildings and over the hundreds of men, women, children, peasants, nobles, and all the manner of other people who joined the revelry.

It was the Feast of the Moon, also called All Hallow's Eve by many druids; a holiday Drizzt knew from much of his travels to be a somber occasion.

"In Moonwood, the elves remain as quiet as peaceful ghosts from when the sun sets until the sun rises," the drow added, taking a light draw from his clove and letting the smoke trail past his lips. "Around midnight, they lit black lanterns and walked through the forest, dedicating their globes to the souls of their passed kin."

"Appropriate," Entreri, replied, watching a group of children dressed in silver shawls and sewn dragons' heads run past them making roaring noises amid their giggles. "I see everyone keeps to somber remembrance on this night."

"Maybe that is their way," Drizzt said, his smile widening. "Remembering all those goodly silver dragons who have sacrificed their lives…"

"Blah blah blah," Entreri said rolling his eyes, eliciting a snicker from his companion.

Drizzt scanned the throngs of people jumping, dancing, running, or just walking with their companions. The revelers of Baldur's Gate had interesting tastes in costuming; robes and capes of various colors were the most popular, though a few illusionists made themselves look like floating clouds or made their green capes float like the tail of a stately dragon. Then there were the sheets with eyeholes cut out to make an easy ghost.

Various drums and fiddles pierced the night, making music both mournful and lively; the background noise for a festival of the dead. It was a curious concept that a night so somber where the chilled air almost breathed spirits should inspire such joy.

"I think we of all people should be celebrating death," Drizzt said low, bracing himself for any reaction from his companion.

Entreri merely cocked an eyebrow, his smile fading into his usual annoyed scowl.

"And why is that?" the human asked.

"It's our livelihood," Drizzt replied, taking another draw and blowing the smoke away from his companion. "Farmers celebrate a good harvest, if you get my meaning."

"Death is business, only that," Entreri replied. "Always has been." Drizzt nodded, finding the clear logic in his friend's words even if he did not completely agree. Entreri rarely found passion in anything, Drizzt considered himself a creature of passion; experiencing and reveling in all that he had denied himself for too long. Entreri met his gaze, communicating in one look that he practically read his thoughts. "You are resisting the urge to say something else," the assassin said.

"Though you wouldn't want to hear it," the drow replied.

"Humor me," Entreri said, watching a drunken man dressed in a cheap imitation of Elminster's blue robes and thick beard waggling his fingers at a group of women in corsets with cloth fairy wings and conjuring only giggles.

"Death is a somber business indeed," Drizzt said with a wicked smile. "Though it revels in its own blackness; so completely black and terrible that its force, its creep is only matched by grand celebration, revelry, and merry making."

"Sorrows are best drowned in spirits and the other way around?" Entreri asked with a smirk, knowing he was stepping into dangerous territory with this one.

"Fuck sorrows," Drizzt replied matter-of-factly without a beat. "Sorrows get boring; sorrows kill the fun out of things. Maybe that is why these hoary revelers prefer celebration. Poke a little fun at that which is to be feared."

Entreri said nothing, expecting as much. Drizzt was handling the occasion predictably well, not dwelling on the somberness of the occasion and remaining only neutral to the whole thing. The assassin hoped this would happen, an indication that the drow maybe was capable of some control in the face of death as a quiet subject. It was not even a year after his wife was killed in front of him and his ensuing grief destroyed him. Now Do'Urden was keeping his usual smarmy expression, revealing no lingering discomfort that could too easily turn into rage.

"I could not agree more, my dreary friends," a familiar voice called from behind.

Drizzt and Entreri turned around, seeing nothing but a group of children wearing black jumpsuits painted as skeletons. It was a silhouette at first, though soon a black figure tumbled beside the parading children; a lithe form cartwheeling before coming into a double flip and landing in a perfect split.

The figure wore a black tunic with billowing velvet sleeves. His black cape whipped around him, though took on a shimmer like an ink blot in water. The man threw his arms to his sides, exposing his black face painted as a grinning white skull as the black top hat stayed on his head. Red eyes peered through the painting, making him look like some kind of painted lich, or painted drow at the very least.

"By the gods, I never thought you could look more hideous," Entreri said, feigning awe.

Jarlaxle's grin widened. He flipped his hat off his bald head, threw it in the air, did a back flip, and caught it back on his head before he landed in a grand pose.

"And why are you two not in costume," the mercenary said scoldingly, wagging a finger at both. "Can you not see you both are rather underdressed for the occasion?"

"And you are overdressed as always," Drizzt said. "What in the Hells are you supposed to be?"

"I, ye of little culture, am the Baron; the one who brings souls from the material to the underworld, or as so the legends of Chult say," Jarlaxle said with a grand bow. "What better actor to portray this fun individual than a terrible, feared creature in the blackest flesh."

"Or just a pompous ass who likes blinding people with his atrociousness," Drizzt muttered, taking a last draw and twisting the end of his stick.

"Your words, not mine" Entreri said in response.

Jarlaxle merely smiled at both. "Your loss I suppose," he said, taking off his hat and waving it around. "I for one endeavor to enjoy this fabulous evening as much as I can and if either of you spoil sports care to actually play along, that is indeed your ddecision."

Jarlaxle waved, then started doing a series of backflips away from his two partners who merely eyed him in amusement. Once his companions were out of sight, he landed nimbly on his feet, laughing in their direction while strolling through the crowd like he was the king of this land.

A few maidens dressed as black-lipped she demons in torn skirts and wire wings danced in a circle, with Jarlaxle nimbly moving into their line. The ladies, half in the bottle by the smell of them, laughed hysterically at the black clad gentleman tapping along with the beat of the accordion a gnome in a harlequin's costume played on the side of the street. Jarlaxle clapped his hands before taking the arm of one lady, spinning her around, and letting go to move on to the next and then down the line.

He exited the dance with a low bow to each of the ladies before making a bee line for a small cart filled with various sugar cookies frosted with orange skulls and pumpkins. He danced up to the old woman in a large, orange bonnet who eyed him with suspicion. He gently placed a hand beside her ear, producing a flinch and copper piece. The vendor saw the coin as Jarlaxle placed it in her hand and she smiled. Jarlaxle then removed a bright orange pumpkin cookie from the cart, nibbled on it, and bowed in approval before dancing off again.

The drow munched his cookie, savoring the buttery texture and sugar that melted in his mouth. This was paradise; the sweetness, the music, the dancing, the colorful costumes, all of it.

He knew little about the Feast of the Moon celebration, even during his many years of travel on the Surface. It was only during his first year in Damara when he saw the costumes meant to scare away for ghosts of sorrow that he fully understood the meaning of the holiday.

Jarlaxle finished his cookie, buying a glass of mead from another vendor and sharing in a toast with a group of halflings with their faces painted green as they wore thick, grass-covered coats making them look like grassy hills in humanoid form.

This was his ritual for the rest of the night; moving adeptly from one costumed group to another, the center of attention and just another phantom in this mass of colorful shadows.

------------

Drizzt didn't want to appear to be staring, knowing Jarlaxle would notice if he was paying too much attention. Regardless, the ranger opened his window in Bani Pilazi's guildhouse a little wider, catching a better view of the black figure sitting on the outside roof. His white skull makeup was still in tact, though he was bare to the waist; his high-heeled boots tucked against the outer wall.

Jarlaxle almost looked vulnerable in this position, devoid of his usual grand cape and wide-brimmed hat. He was perched on a section of roof like a gargoyle, a glass of what looked like Surface wine gently clutched in his fingers as he raised it up to Selune.

"To the departed," the mercenary whispered, a sad smile on his face, holding his glass out as if he expected someone to join in the toast. "All of us." His smile widened as he laughed and downed the glass.

Drizzt couldn't help but wonder to whom he was toasting. Maybe it was Zaknafein, maybe a myriad of other friends and allies of some sort he had gained and lost through the centuries.

The line "all of us" sent chills through his form as Drizzt remembered another fact about his friend.

He merely looked at Jarlaxle again, getting an angle from the window to see his painted face and swearing he saw a bit of sobriety in those dancing eyes. It was a sight he never wanted to see, yet gave a new perspective to his mysterious kinsman.

Drizzt smiled, mentally joining the toast and fully feeling the spirit of it. It was somber, though not overwhelmingly so. He sighed, remembering so many faces that darted from his past and passed from the world; it was a feeling that chilled him.

Drizzt sighed, shaking off the sensation and giving Jarlaxle one last look before closing the window.


End file.
